The 200 (Word Kiss)
by justvisiting80
Summary: As a writing exercise, I'm doing a series of unconnected "snapshot" scenes. To make it challenging, I decided each must be exactly 200 words, and must end in a (BELLARKE) kiss. That's it! I will post each one at a time. While they were intended as an exercise only, please let me know if you're interested in seeing any of these expanded. Thank you for reading!
1. Rain

_**A/N:** I hope you enjoy these mini one-shots! They're just for fun, unless something sparks your fancy and you'd love to see it explored more - in which case, let me know! :) I will keep this open an update as I can._

_**A/N2:** I am about to shamelessly plug a couple other places you can find me online, sorry: on Twitter (justvisiting80), on YouTube ("Josephine Visit") and with my friend _Marina Black1_ on Tumblr (links on my profile page). For non-fanfic writings (wait, is that even possible) check me out on wordpress ("justvisiting80")._

_Thank you for reading! I love feedback!_

* * *

Water was everywhere, and Bellamy loved it. The rain pouring over them all, the little rivulets along the muddy forest floor – almost like spotting the Amazon on a good day, from up in the Ark. Only this was wetter, muddier, and more real than that could ever be. He turned his face heavenward, laughing at the sensation of being washed clean. He imagined it rinsing off not just the blood, dirt, sweat… But also the death, the horror, the sin that had collected on him here.

In this moment, Bellamy was pure and perfect.

He caught movement nearby and turned, surprised to find anyone else outside now. Clarke smiled at him in that distracted way she did when her thoughts were somewhere distant.

"Your dad?"

"Yes. He was obsessed with rain. He called it the best water processing system ever developed."

"He was right."

"He usually was."

"Clarke… I'm sorry. About your dad, I mean. He was a good man, trying to do the right thing. And - I'm sorry." Bellamy's face was wet, fresh, sincere; Clarke felt tears welling up, mixing with the rain.

"Bellamy… Thank you," she whispered, stretching to press her lips softly against his.


	2. The Fight

"You never know when to back down, do you, Princess?"

"I'm not going to back down when you're clearly wrong, Bellamy!" She tried not to think about his frustratingly boyish freckles or annoyingly soulful brown eyes.

"I'm not wrong Clarke, you're stubborn. There's a difference. Learn what it is!" He frowned at her maddeningly sincere pout and infuriatingly soft gold hair.

If asked, neither would have been able to explain just how this particular fight started. It may have been something vital to the survival of the camp. It could have been something arbitrary. The fact that neither could remember the original disagreement lent weight to the probability of it being the latter.

Regardless of the reason, or even who had started this latest battle, Clarke and Bellamy were now nose to nose, eyes flashing, chests heaving. Both wanted to end it, and neither knew how because of their damn stupid pride.

It was impossible to say who blinked first. Each would always claim it was the other. But in a single startling moment the tension snapped and they collided, hearts and bodies and lips seeking out their other half in passionate, world-shattering need.


	3. Rainbows

The first time Clarke Griffin saw a rainbow, she gasped at the unexpected perfection of it, the long glorious arc of color stretching from somewhere just out of reach to somewhere just out of sight. She refused to take her eyes from it, wanting to memorize every element to recreate later with pencil and paper. Without looking away, she groped behind her blindly for the first person her hands could find, and landed on the tough leather of a jacket collar. She pulled, still staring up, whispering at the person to look, just look.

"It's beautiful," she managed. There was a wordless sound of assent in Bellamy's deep voice. She dragged her face from the magic of the sky, caught him watching her out of the corner of his eye, and allowed a surprised smile.

It was a revelation to know he could appreciate beauty like this.

"Princess?" he murmured as they gazed up at the rainbow together.

"Hm?"

"Clarke..."

This time she looked at him. He reached over, cupped her face in both hands, and crushed his mouth, his body against hers. He stole her breath and then stepped back, smiling down at the beauty he saw.


	4. Getting Home

Bellamy watched Clarke over the injured boy's head.

"Well, Princess? Any suggestions?" His low voice cut through the whimpering.

"Start be elevating his leg," she answered, ignoring the teasing moniker. Clarke the Person was gone. Clarke the Clinician was in charge, and Clarke the Clinician had no time for nicknames. She felt the boy's shin, hissing in frustration when she found the break.

"Bad news, then."

Clarke glared at Bellamy, grabbing his arm and pulling him out of earshot.

"If that was you lying there, would you want people discussing you like that?"

"If that was me, I'd want to know what's wrong," Bellamy frowned.

"His leg's broken, which isn't normally life-threatening. But out here…" Clarke stopped. They were so far from camp, and night was coming.

Bellamy nodded, staring down at her, his arms crossed.

"Okay. So how do we get him home?"

"Right. Um, stabilize it, so he can stand and walk with our help. And hope he doesn't pass out."

"Done. And Princess?"

Bellamy leaned down, closing the distance between them with a soft kiss.

"Nice work."

He walked away, leaving Clarke the Person very surprised and very confused.


	5. Help

_Darkness. And pain._

"Bellamy, open your eyes."

"Wake up _now_, Bellamy!"

Clarke sounded harsh, demanding. He hated it. He liked her laughter. He liked her quiet voice, the one she used with patients. This was her "Dammit Bellamy, you messed everything up" voice. It had to stop.

"Stop." Nothing came out. Just a low, quiet moan. His head throbbed.

"Wake up. _Look_ at me."

Now her voice was worse than harsh. It was sad, hurting.

_That_ he could not allow. Nobody should hurt Clarke. He would find who it was. Punish them.

"Who?" he tried. Again, no sound.

"Bellamy, please. I _need_ you."

She must be teasing him. That was too mean. For her to grieve him like that… it was cruel to make him listen. It must end. He forced his lids open. She was sitting near his shoulder, knees tucked to her chest, crying real tears.

"Hi," he croaked. She heard him.

She looked into his eyes and reached out to stroke his hair. She laughed in that way he wanted. She called his name softly in that way she did with her patients.

And she kissed him - in a way that erased all the rest of it.


	6. Surprised

There it was again. That sound. A soft keening, pitched so both humans felt the hair at the base of their necks prickle in ancient, animal fear.

"Wolf?" Bellamy hazarded; Clarke shrugged. "...Wild dog?"

"I'm more interested in whether or not it's hungry," she said. Bellamy hid a quick grin and moved toward Clarke. She eyed the surrounding undergrowth, barely noticing when he curled his fingers over hers, taking the makeshift spear she carried. It would be more useful wielded by Bellamy.

"Here." He offered his axe in exchange for the hunting weapon. "Just... in case." Clarke nodded, pushing away images of what "just in case" looked like: _Blood. Lots of it. Mostly Bellamy's._

Spear raised in anticipation, Bellamy stepped into a nearby thicket. After a moment he called to her, sounding pleasantly surprised. She followed. A small dog was caught in the vines snaking through this area. It looked young. Frightened. Exhausted. Without hesitation Clarke knelt, freeing it. It fled immediately.

She turned back to Bellamy, thankful there had been no real danger. His relief matched hers; when she leaned into him, he kissed her instinctively.

He never could have guessed she'd kiss him back.


	7. Imagined

Bellamy almost told her how he felt as they sat around the campfire with the others. The darkness carried a chill, forcing people closer than usual; she pressed against him, rubbing her hands to stay warm. It was tempting. _She_ was tempting, the way she glowed in the firelight. Then again, she always glowed - a small, fierce light in this otherwise dark and muddy world.

He almost told her - but did not. Instead he asked about the girl with the broken wrist. The boy with the flu. Her medical supplies. Anything to keep away the visions of what it would be like to hold her face in his hands. To whisper her name softly against her cheek.

To kiss her.

Clarke answered his questions tersely. She worried her voice would betray her. They never really got to share moments like this, quiet and peaceful, and the fire softened everything about him. His eyes called to her. She blinked away a response, asking instead about the expansion of their wall. About ammunition, and food for winter. Anything to stop picturing his rich voice murmuring his need for her. His fingers tracing down her spine.

Or the caress of his imagined kiss.


	8. Snow

Individually, each unique snowflake did not last long enough to change the temperature of her skin; none could really be called "cold". Collectively, though, the small crystals accumulating on her sleeve sent a chill through to her flesh. Clarke shivered and turned to Bellamy.

"We need to get back," she announced. They had little practical experience with snow. She did not want to be stranded in the forest with no shelter.

"Why the rush, Princess?" Bellamy was far less concerned. He watched the white flurries float serenely through the pine branches, muting the world, softening her edges. He smiled when Clarke caught him staring - a smile so warm and open, it made her blush for reasons she refused to examine. The color rising in her cheeks captivated him.

"Bellamy, we have to make sure the camp is secure."

"They're fine."

"And us?"

"We'll be fine too."

"We could freeze to death." Bellamy stepped closer; her breathing changed, ghostly vapor clouds forming in short, erratic bursts.

"I won't let that happen." Another step.

"How could you stop it?" Closer.

"...Oh, I'll think of something." Bellamy's lips finally found Clarke's, the bright heat of him igniting a smoldering fire in her.

* * *

_****For the record, word counts may be off occasionally since FFN counts an apostrophe with an "s" as its own word (even when it is actually the possessive, not the contraction).****_


	9. Falling

Clarke swore-tripped-slid down the muddy bank, grasping at the brambles clinging to the slope. She rolled to a stop at the bottom and tensed angrily, waiting for laughter from Bellamy. She knew she was a wet, dirty mess.

Instead she heard him scrambling down to her. She was surprised by the tender way he asked if she was hurt; she grunted and sat up, examining the palms of her hands where thorns had ripped open her flesh on the way down. Bellamy inhaled sharply at the sight of her blood mingling with the dirt.

"I should clean that." He looked around.

"In my bag," Clarke offered. Bellamy found her canteen and poured water over the cuts. Clarke just wanted him to hurry; but as he rubbed away the grime, something changed. There was less urgency, more exploration in his touch. Clarke felt her body react alarmingly to the difference. She considered pulling away, until a tiny voice whispered to lean in. _Closer. _She glanced up and caught his stare.

Clarke had not let Bellamy in, out of fear. But his look promised he would be there. Always. So she let go; she kissed him.

And they fell, together.


	10. A Moment

When it finally happened it was both torment and bliss.

The kiss was messy, chaotic, and perfect - because of all their own imperfections. Because of his anger and her grief. The chip on his shoulder and the crater in her chest. Because he needed her more than he needed air but for once could not find the right words, and because she felt truly whole only in his presence but had spent too long pretending otherwise.

So instead his lips crushed painfully against hers, telling her magical stories with all the fiery passion he poured into his speeches. Hers in turn fought desperately to heal him, with the same fierce determination of her hands at work on a fresh injury.

His body, hard and lean (and so at home in the forest it often seemed to her he was at least half wild animal), pressed hungrily against the soft curves of her (those curves that called to him the way a river calls to the parched sinner, singing seductively of release and redemption).

Their breath mingled: sweet, hot, heavy with need. They sank into each other, unable to recall any previous perfection that compared to this one raw, flawless moment.

* * *

**** Please be kind as you review; this one is possibly my favorite. ****


	11. Charming (Part 1)

_**A/N:** I kind of cheated here because this is ACTUALLY a 400-word kiss, in two parts. Forgive me?_

* * *

When he found her, he forgot everything else.

He forgot the chill. Forgot his hunger, his exhaustion, even the endless grey gnawing fear that had pushed him to keep searching for her. He forgot, because she was a crumpled white doll, terrifyingly still, barely visible against the snowy backdrop of this little glade in the winter woods.

"Clarke," he called out, but the name sounded harsh in this landscape, all sharp pointy sounds, too jarring. Too cold.

"Princess," he tried instead. It was infinitely better, soft and round, constructed entirely of warm exhales and gentle whispers and hope.

"Please be alive."

He had not meant to say it aloud. Saying it gave shape to the fear, and suddenly he was not alone with her in the woods; a formless menacing shadow skulked along beside him, ready to take her from him again, this time forever.

"No!" He fell to his knees, hovering over her protectively. "Princess, stay with me." He thought of all the fairy tales: the charming prince, the magic kiss, the happy ending; and he shuddered at the realization that he was no prince, that this was no fairy tale, that he could do nothing to help her.


	12. Charming (Part 2)

Fortunately for Bellamy Blake, Clarke Griffin was very good at helping herself.

She heard his plea, recognized the deep rough tone, and fought against the darkness enveloping her. She pushed up, kicking, clawing toward him, until her eyes fluttered open and her vision filled with his beautiful terrified face, haloed by the falling snow.

"Bellamy." His name dancing across her lips was perfect. Strong at first but also soft; possessive yet selfless; a song. He thrilled at the way her husky voice purred the sounds, and pulled her into his arms instinctively. Gone was the shadowy fear, gone the ice gripping his chest. Bellamy held her until she struggled free, staring at him, wide-eyed.

She never expected to see it all written so plainly in his features.

She had suspected - especially recently - but there was never any time to actually _talk_, not when every day was a struggle to survive, to keep the others alive. But here, now, in the privacy of a world turned simple and pure and theirs alone, the excuses evaporated.

His eyes made the confession, his lips begged a response, and her heart soared.

Clarke Griffin kissed Bellamy Blake until names were nothing at all.


	13. Need

**_A/N:_**_ Please bear with me. I'm trying a thing. If it's not your thing, my apologies!_

* * *

In a dark abandoned forest - after the _beginning_ of the end had come, and the _end_ of the end had gone - they hit the ground. Hard. They arrived as bare naive infants, not yet walking but without time to learn before they must run. And run they did, headlong into: anger - chaos - oppression - suffering - uncertainty – war… but led always by He (the heart) and She (the head) they kept running… because what other choice was there?

She hurt everywhere - a wound reopened time after time, festering – but never a chance to think of her own crippling pain.

He clung stubbornly to his blackened past and hazy present – unwilling to admit their persistence was the sacrifice his own future.

It was a twisted tango, he dark when she needed light; she tough when he ached for tender; until one dawn they looked across a field of graves and knew they were next (not today but eventually) and finally understood: survival was not about fear, it was about hope. It was not about independence, but about vulnerability.

Survival was not about the others, it was about _one another_.

And their brutal, frenzied, ravenous kiss was not about choice. It was about need.


	14. Home

_**A/N:** It's been a while. Sorry! Just a little taste for now; you're likely to see more from me over the holidays._

* * *

Bellamy just wanted sleep.

It was the best part of his day; and yet Clarke haunted even this private time. Tonight, it was that moment by the fire when she caught him watching - and instead of giving him a hard time, simply let it be something that happened. She always did that: taking in new information, processing it faster than he even knew it was possible to think, discarding the irrelevant to make use of the necessary.

It was damn sexy.

It was _not_ healthy.

Clarke had turned who she was into who she had to – no, not true. She had taken it further. She had become who _they_ needed her to be, to survive. Bellamy stood, resigned to sleeplessness. Clarke called to him softly from the doorway; he immediately took up his position at her shoulder. He felt, rather than heard, Clarke sigh into the familiar stance.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

"You're allowed to be."

It was exactly what she needed to hear. She leaned back into his chest, turned her head, and found his lips: too close. Too ready. Letting go was as scary as the rest of it, but Bellamy… was safety. Bellamy was home.


	15. Apologies

_**A/N:** How LONG has it been? I'm so sorry, darlings! I really am! I am just... struggling through this season along with the rest of you. This is all I can manage right now. I have NOT forgotten "Tell Me" - and will update/finish as soon as I feel strong enough to tackle that. In the meantime, though, if you like me enough to try reading my non-Bellarke stuff, please follow me on Twitter (justvisiting80) for The100 retweets, random snark, and general news about what I'm up to._

_**A/N2:** Very important that I take a moment to hug my PK ladies: **MarinaBlack1, Persepholily, Lucawindmover**. These are the best women I have ever had the honor to know. I'm not worthy, ladies. Thank you for putting up with me._

* * *

It was mean. Mean and maybe a little spiteful and Bellamy hated himself for saying it, but he could not _take it_ back so he _pulled_ back instead, watching Clarke try not to let him see how much it hurt. How much _he had hurt her._

"Never. Call me that. Again."

He relented then, but only because of the tears. She was not supposed to cry.

_He_ was not supposed to _make_ her cry.

He stepped into her personal space – did they have that, though, really? Could something like space actually _exist _between two people stitched as closely together as they had become?

"Sorry."

She nodded, a tiny shift of the head, but close like this it felt as large as a seismic shift underfoot.

He swallowed back the rest of his comment: that Finn had started it, Bellamy had grown it, and Lexa had tried to make it real… but that it had _always_ been the wrong word for her.

Bellamy closed his eyes. Rested his forehead on hers.

"I _am_ sorry," he whispered again; this time he meant… _so_ _much more_.

_Her_ apology was silent. Lips, hovering at lips for a moment… before giving in to the kiss.


	16. Modern AU

**Modern AU:**

She'd forgotten her umbrella and of course not a single cab was available, because the entire population of DC was allergic to rain. So Clarke flipped up the collar of her peacoat and heaved a sigh that became visible as it touched the chilly air, and walked home. She made a game of identifying the puddles on the sidewalk: that one looked like a kidney, this one more sort of stomach-shaped, and the long slice of water at the curb just before she crossed was definitely a femur.

The wool grew heavy on her shoulders. Her hair, too. Heavy… clingy… _cold_. He'd give her shit for being out in this weather; he'd bitch about her blue lips, that her hands were like ice. He'd strip off the peacoat, throw it over the always-too-hot radiator in the bathroom. She smiled at that thought as she slipped into the tile lobby and up the stairs and through their apartment door.

Nobody did _welcome home_ as well as Bellamy Blake.

"I made soup," he announced, squeezing into the cramped hallway to unfreeze her—from the inside out—with an easy smile and a hungry kiss. "Welcome home, Princess."


End file.
